


I'd Love Just Once To See You

by oceaxe



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: A touch of somnophilia, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Finland (Country), First Time, Karaoke, M/M, POV Alternating, Pining and silliness, Prostate Massage, Rimming, Romance, UST, saunas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-03 16:30:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8720809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: Eames is puttering around his flat in Helsinki when he realizes he's never seen Arthur naked. It's simple curiousity, easily satisfied with a clever ruse. Of course, nothing is simple with these two fools. Featuring Finnish karaoke, saunas, pine tar liquor and substantial pining.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to Dandalf_the_disco for the Finn-picking and all the assistance with everything related to Helsinki! And a thousand kisses to Teacuphuman for the beta.

Helsinki was lovely and the furnished flat was actually nicer than his flat in London, although not a patch on his spacious digs in Mombasa. Eames moved in a leisurely fashion from kitchen to living area and back again, tidying up the mess. He’d been called away suddenly to Oslo to do some emergency recon and had left the flat in a bit of a state. The job in Finland was dragging on, which was fine by him. It was relaxing to play house in a new environment. Everything here was clean and history-free in a way that he didn’t used to appreciate but that just at the moment felt very soothing. 

And of course, there was Arthur. 

They weren’t working the same job, which by itself wasn’t unusual. Eames didn’t know precisely how often Arthur worked or with whom, but he estimated that he himself spent roughly half his professional life by Arthur’s side. However, for both of them to be in the same city while working separate gigs - and in a city as small as this - it was strange. 

Eames filled the sink with soapy water and plunged his hands in, enjoying the odd scent of Fairy. He’d had to leave without doing his breakfast dishes and the crusts had dried on. The work was meditative; he allowed his mind to drift. As it seemed to so often these days, it drifted back to Arthur; cryptic, maddening Arthur. Who had taken a lower-paying job with a newer dreamshare syndicate and was staying in Vuosaari in a truly regrettable little dump. 

He turned to look out the window, lights sparkling and reflecting off the water, the masts of the sailboats skeletal, bobbing. Drying his hands, he went to the door leading to the miniscule balcony, opening it and feeling the cool air on his face. The thought crossed his mind that it was a fine night, the perfect night for a scenic drive up the north coast to his flat from where Arthur was staying.

Arthur had loved the larger kitchen in Eames’ flat, when he’d stopped by a few weeks back. He’d mentioned he might like to try baking in it, as his own was far too small. 

The man baked. What he baked, Eames knew not. He mused over that for a moment - would it be biscuits? Seemed too plebian for discriminating, precise Arthur. Pies? No, although that would be ideal. Eames loved a nice apple pie. Likely he made gateaus on the French model, all cream fillings and fondant icing. That would comport with his exacting standards, his need for a challenge. He smiled at the thought of Arthur wielding a waxed bag of filling, bending over to pump thick cream into sausage-shaped pastries, getting a little on his face. Then Eames would lean over and wipe it away with one finger, bringing it to his mouth. 

It was only ten o’clock, plenty of time still for Arthur to show up, if he wanted to. 

Eames hummed a little tune and wandered into the bedroom, picking up the scattered clothes he’d left in haste to fly to Oslo and shaking them out. He hadn’t exactly extended a clear invitation, but he had made it known he would be back on Pohjoisranta today. And they hadn’t seen each other in weeks, it felt like. It was within the realm of possibility that Arthur might drop in. 

He allowed the thought to warm him. It would be good to see his- friend. Well, that was a strong word. Acquaintances didn’t fit the bill, obviously. Partners or colleagues might, except that they weren’t at the moment on the same team. Eames didn’t know, actually, if they had ever been on the “same team.” 

Eames had found out that Arthur was also in Helsinki when Arthur had shown up at his doorstep almost five weeks ago, sleek and inscrutable as always. He’d put on just a bit of weight since their last job and he looked, well. Eames invited him in, hiding his shock (a professional speciality) and offering him a drink.

Unsurprisingly, Arthur had shown no interest in Salmari, claiming a lifelong aversion to licorice. Eames had handed him a lager, which he’d nursed as he looked around the flat enviously. He had explained that he’d taken a job with some relative newcomers to dreamshare, planning to get a feel for their potential strengths and weaknesses. It was purely for research’s sake, as the job itself was dull in the extreme and not paying up to standard. His flat, he griped, scarcely had a kitchen to speak of--

“And twin beds. Twin!” Arthur had spat bitterly, shaking his head. 

“You’re slender enough, it should be no hardship,” Eames had replied glibly. Arthur only glared in reply as he took another swig of his beer. 

“No company for the duration,” he added after a moment. 

“Well, you could have your maiden aunt come to stay,” Eames couldn’t help but taunt. “Or perhaps an itinerant priest.” Another glare, but this one more amused. 

“And what have you got in there,” Arthur demanded, gesturing with one hand towards the bedroom. 

Eames made a “by all means” sweep of his hand as Arthur rose and walked over to peer through the doorway at the king size bed. “Fuck,” he said feelingly. 

After it had been solidly established that Arthur was pissed off at the relative luxury in which Eames was stationed, they relaxed and avoided talking details of the jobs. Not only would it have been impolitic to do so, but they discovered quite by chance that they were following the same political blogger, which led to a lively discussion of the root causes of Brexit that lasted until about one in the morning. Arthur had excused himself, saying he was exhausted and casting an envious glance at Eames’ bedroom with its superior furnishings as he strode to the door. 

He’d stopped by several more times since then, each time without warning and each time leaving after hours of wide-ranging discussions that left Eames feeling both entertained and strangely unsatisfied.

This casual treatment of their non-professional proximity created the illusion that they lived normal lives, ones in which they just happened to be friends living in the same town, friends who happened to see each other every so often. Friends. 

He heard a sound and startled, nearly dropping the newly folded clothes he was holding. Had that been a knock? Ears on high alert, he crept towards the small entryway. Footsteps paced off down the hall outside, and Eames ignored how his stomach had lurched when he’d thought someone might be at his door.

The time was getting on to eleven. He ran his hand through his hair and realized that while he’d gotten his apartment in order, he’d neglected to clean himself. All in all, it was a good thing Arthur hadn’t stopped by. A sniff of his armpits let him know how rank he smelled. He padded to the bathroom, starting the shower. 

Arthur never smelled rank. Not even when they’d been on a job for days straight, no chance to shower or even bathe off in a sink. Eames shook his head as he stripped down, tossing the clothes in the corner. 

The realization struck him out of nowhere. He’d never seen Arthur naked. 

Sure, Eames had seen him in various states of deshabille due to one extenuating circumstance or another. He’d seen his shoulders and back once when he’d had to strip out of his suddenly-soaking, previously-immaculate Zegna buttondown, that time in Bangkok when the rains had hit without warning. Arthur had turned away to face the wall as he peeled the wet fabric from his body, and Eames had given him the privacy he’d obviously desired. Mostly. 

And there was that other time, the ‘ankle incident’ Eames privately referred to it, when he had cause to refer to it in words, which was never. Truthfully, Arthur had exposed more than just an ankle when he’d had to cut off the leg of his trousers to get at a bullet wound. Eames had been too busy ensuring the demise and/or hasty retreat of the assailant to fully absorb the lines of Arthur’s leg at the moment, but the burst of adrenaline that seared through him on recognizing that Arthur had been injured had burned the image in his retina. He was able to revisit it after the fact; the finely-haired pale skin, the just-so curve of the muscles of the calf, were very comely indeed. But it was the delicacy of the ankle bone that had done him in. Arthur wore these rather short, rather sheer trouser socks and…

Eames was soaping himself as mused on the parts of Arthur’s exposed body he’d seen. It wasn’t nearly enough for him to make the call on the overall quality of Arthur’s form; he still had all manner of unanswered questions. The arse, for one. It looked divine, nigh unto perfection really, under his Cavalli suits- but what was the texture of the skin like, there? 

He took himself in hand as he wondered if Arthur had a smooth arse or a lightly furred one, whether he was cut or not (his bet was on yes), how much underarm hair he might have. Nothing was a deal breaker; it was just a matter of getting his curiosity satisfied.

He needed to see him once, just once. Just once and then he’d know, and he could stop wondering. 

It occurred to Eames, as he stroked himself from root to tip with a firm grip, that his building, while superior in both location and amenities to Arthur’s, lacked a sauna. Arthur, however, had mentioned having one in his building. The road went two ways, after all, even here in Helsinki.

Eames smiled, then his mouth fell open in a soft ‘o’ and he came all over his fist.


	2. Chapter 2

The knock at the door startled Arthur, and Arthur was not a person who allowed himself to be startled. He reached for his gun and sidled to the door, head pressed to the jamb to catch any sounds that might leak through. “Arthur,” a low voice drawled, and his heart turned over in his chest. A tiny smile crept sideways across his lips as he holstered his gun and opened the door.

“What are you doing here?” Arthur asked bluntly. He’d been wondering if Eames would ever take the initiative to visit him. Now that it had happened, though, it seemed urgent to find out why.

“Oh, so it’s perfectly acceptable for you to drop by unannounced, but I need an engraved invitation?” Eames replied, without actually answering the question. It was a typical Eames maneuver. He refrained from asking how Eames had known he was at home or how he’d gotten the address- it was past time for him to stop underestimating Eames’ espionage skills. 

“As you can see, I wasn’t lying when i told you how crappy this flat is,” Arthur said, walking further into said craphole, hearing Eames’ footsteps following him. 

“I would never take you for a liar, Arthur,” Eames purred. It sounded like a compliment, but really Eames meant that Arthur was too stodgy and basic for frivolous fabrications. 

Arthur sat on the unbelievably cheap sofa and gestured to Eames to take the armchair, which creaked ominously under his bulk. “But seriously. What’s up? Are you in trouble?” He peered at Eames, looking for what Arthur liked to pretend were his tells - they changed periodically so they were sort of unreliable, but a point had to have something to go on. 

Eames laughed and it had the mildest rueful tone. “No, no trouble as such, darling. Just wanted to partake of that sauna you mentioned, if that’s a possibility?” He waggled his eyebrows in what he clearly thought was a charming appeal. 

“Sure. I guess,” he said. “I have to go with you, though. They don’t let guests go unattended.” He swallowed and brushed some lint off his pant leg. 

Eames rose from the chair. “Is now a good time?” Arthur cocked his head and examined him again with a critical eye. There was definitely something off about his demeanor. Come to think of it, he’d been acting strangely the whole time they’d been in Finland. Maybe he was drinking too much of the local booze. 

“Yeah, I was just--” _getting ready to have a nap and jerk off._ “Yeah, it’s fine. I’ll just--” He rose as well and ducked into the tiny bathroom to grab some towels for the both of them. 

They walked down the corridor together in an uncomfortable silence. It reminded Arthur of how they were at the start of their professional acquaintance. Neither had known what to make of the other -- Eames offput by Arthur’s frequent bad moods and pickiness, Arthur revolted by his perception of Eames as a sloppy and unreliable mess. Only gradually had Arthur sussed out that almost all of Eames’ sloppiness was feigned, and the unreliability was often quite strategic. 

The last month or so had been interesting. He was rifling through all the various ways in which Eames had surprised him when they reached the locker room that preceded the shower and sauna.

Arthur undressed with economic movements, pushing aside his awareness of the man stripping down next to him. It was hard to believe Eames’ building didn’t have a communal sauna like this one - it seemed like a fatal oversight for so luxe a property. Arthur straightened, facing away from Eames, and wrapped the towel around his waist. He turned to find Eames’ gaze sliding away from him, a smirk on his damnable mouth. Arthur wanted to protest that being a point left little time for indulging in mindless pursuits such as _bodybuilding_ or whatever the hell Eames did to get that figure. His eyes traveled across Eames’ chest, skimming the horrible tattoos. He scowled and made for the door of the sauna. 

Eames got there first and held the door open for him. 

“Allow me,” he said, the picture of gallantry, if gallantry were an asshole. Arthur held his head high and did not acknowledge him. He picked a seat near the rocks and poured a trickle of water on, then reclined against an upper bench and closed his eyes. The Finns knew how to relax. Arthur made dim plans to install a sauna in his Chicago condo.

Eames climbed up and laid himself on the bench above Arthur, positioning his chest right behind Arthur’s head. Arthur’s heart sped up. It was literally too hot in here. It felt like they were sinking through the crust of the earth into the core. Eames reached over with one hand and casually added more water, increasing the humidity. Arthur looked over his shoulder to favor him with a glare and was horrified to note that Eames had undone his towel. He swiveled back around before he could register anything that he wasn’t ready to know about yet.

“I’m going to go shower off,” he said as casually as he could.

“But we’ve only just begun to sweat,” Eames called out as the door shut on his protest.

“I’ll be back,” he replied, not exactly caring if his voice carried through the heavy pine door. He did plan to go back, he just needed a little distance. He probably shouldn’t have agreed to Eames’ suggestion.

Being around Eames sometimes was like grinding up against a huge immovable object. He was solid and implacable, and his seeming whimsy was merely calculated to distract you from that fact. Arthur felt himself to be implacable and sturdy as well (was in fact perhaps a little too dedicated to that vision of himself). It was like tectonic plates shoving and grating against each other. He could never just get Eames to do something. Eames had to come to it in his own time. Like a cat. Like a huge, leonine cat. 

He turned on the shower head and stood under it, yelping and scooting away when the water turned out to be much colder than he’d expected. What was he thinking, trying to be casually naked around Eames? It was a complete disaster. He spent a lot of time cultivating his untouchable image, and a large part of that image consisted of the armor of his suits. Being nude around him was just… a bad idea.

He was moving too fast. Perhaps he and Eames weren’t meant to have a friendship - god only knew how it would be managed, anyway. Eames like to test boundaries and Arthur liked to set them. It was like asking to be perpetually challenged. What a nightmare.

Arthur stiffened when he heard someone enter the shower room. It turned out to be one of his neighbors from down the hall, and he sighed in relief as he shut off the water. Mentally arming himself, he went back to the sauna, determined not to let Eames’…. Eamesishness affect him. He was just a trickster and an instigator; it was nothing Arthur couldn’t handle.

On entering, he allowed himself to survey the situation only as much as necessary to establish that Eames was still in the room. He sat down in the same place as before, refusing to give the bastard the satisfaction of assuming that he’d rattled Arthur with his libertine display. He was so _european_ , it was embarrassing. 

“Glad you’ve rejoined us, dear Arthur,” Eames said in a sleepy voice. Arthur realized that he’d been so busy ascertaining Eames’ presence and location that he’d missed the fact that there was someone else in the sauna. Oh yeah, his neighbor, the wiry dude. He looked back at Eames, feeling confident that he would have covered up in the presence of a stranger - whoops. Not a safe assumption. 

It was- big. Not huge. But big. Bigger than- but maybe - Arthur took a deep breath, closed his eyes and forced his mind to go blank. He focused on the heat surrounding him, sinking into his pores. It suffused his muscles, drew sweat up through his skin. It was hot everywhere, but hotter on his back and neck somehow - it wasn’t possible for him to feel Eames’ body heat in this intense swelter, was it? Obviously not, the thought was absurd. He shifted, the hairs on his neck standing on end. Eames’ shoulder, or maybe it was his arm, brushed the back of Arthur’s head. 

Arthur very carefully put his hands in his lap, making the motion as casual as it could possibly be. There was no way his body was responding to this situation. He was a man of the world. Jaded. Impenetrable. 

Except that he really would like to be penetrated, actually. 

Just not - now. Not in these circumstances. And not with - just. Not now. No. Fuck.

Suddenly Eames was in motion, sitting up behind him. He swung his legs off the bench and Arthur saw him wrapping the towel around his groin out of the corner of his eye. 

“I drifted off there for a minute, I’m afraid,” he said roughly. He hopped off the bench and went to the door, turning to Arthur with his hand on the wooden handle. “You coming?” he said, his eyes travelling down Arthur’s frame and resting fractionally on his lap. His eyes widened but his face didn’t otherwise change. 

Arthur shifted and coolly averted his gaze, attempting nonchalance while hoping that his already-flushed skin hid the blush he could feel rising. “I’ll be out in a minute. Meet you in the changing room.” 

“Right,” Eames said, and still his face did not change despite that he had just clocked Arthur’s state. He left the sauna and Arthur sat limply, breathing hard. Eames had seen, but he hadn’t teased Arthur. What the everloving fuck. 

There was no doubt that Eames had seen. And there was further no doubt that in all possible worlds, there was no way Eames would let that pass unremarked. Unless he wasn’t amused by it.

Unless it made him uncomfortable.

Arthur pressed his hand on his dick remorselessly, cursing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was partly inspired by the song We're an Industry, by Birds and Batteries.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dr3EvEjs7M0


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains excerpts from several Finnish karaoke songs, the lyrics of which are in the end notes. So if you want to know what they're singing, skip to the end! And if anyone knows a more graceful way to link to lyrics without interrupting the flow of the story, please let me know!

He really wasn’t supposed to use the PASIV like this. He really, truly, was not supposed to use it like this at all. Eames had taken the backup unit with him on the pretense of practicing his forge of the mark’s uptight arsehole boss, and while he fully intended to do exactly that, he kept finding himself slipping a bit. It was getting to be a problem.

He looked into the mirror and sighed. The boss’ face once again looked like she and Arthur had had a love child. This was hopeless. Not to mention terribly unprofessional.

Immediately post-sauna he’d been both flush with success - curiousity satisfied, Arthur’s arse comely and smooth, his other parts appealing in every way - and full of new, pressing questions. Questions which had only continued to press more insistently on his mind as the days passed. It was now nearly a week since he’d shared space with Arthur and he felt like he was going slightly mad. 

“Alright, you pervy fucker, have at it, then. Once.” Eames was firm with himself on this point. He would only do this once. 

He allowed himself to shift into Arthur, and was not surprised to see that his subconscious had clothed him in one of Arthur’s most fetching ensembles. Which rather defeated the purpose, unfortunately. Eames met his eyes- Arthur’s dark, perpetually sleepy-looking eyes - in the mirror as his hands went to the collar of the exquisitely tailored shirt. The hands shook a bit as he undid the buttons. Now undone, he parted the shirt and shrugged off both shirt and jacket in an entirely un-Arthur-like maneuver. 

He raised his arms up in the air, watching the way the muscles slid and stretched, all the shifting curves and lines and planes of Arthur’s chest and shoulders. His hands roved over the slender, sculpted torso and he could feel his body responding. Fuck, he was going to get to see that erection. It was right there, under the obscenely tight-fitting trousers, distending the cut of the fabric. 

With an abrupt shock of shame, he dropped the forge. He reappeared in the mirror as himself. Bested by his own conscience once again. But even had he been able to complete the striptease, it wouldn’t have answered his question. 

Had that response been for him? 

Of course he’d seen that Arthur was sporting a stiffy in the sauna. He was a forger, for fuck's sake. He noticed the most minute things about people for a living and he was extremely proficient at his job. But he couldn’t be sure that he had been the cause of that lovely bulge under Arthur’s prim little towel. There had been another person in the room, after all; a lithe lean man, just Eames’s type, really. He wouldn’t have blamed Arthur in the slightest if that salute had been directed thence. 

And any road, Eames still lacked confirmation that Arthur even swung that way. He assumed, as did most people, but there was no verified evidence. The few exes he’d mentioned over the years had all had frustratingly ambisexual names - Chris, Jamie, Evan. Well, that last one would appear to be a giveaway, wouldn’t it? Eames had been very piqued to discover that there was an actress by the name of Evan Rachel Wood.

Eames paced the dreamscape studio for a few minutes, waiting for the timer to run out. It was past time for him to sate these urges, if sateable they were. He couldn’t keep focus on the job, for one. For two, he hadn’t gotten laid the whole time he’d been in Finland and a man of his appetites and skills was not accustomed to famine. Thirdly, if Arthur wasn’t into him, best he know now, before these feelings worsened. He laughed at the idea of mooning over Arthur, but abruptly sobered when he realized that that was exactly what he was doing. 

Right, then. He was a man of action. Time for a plan.

 

The second time he showed up on Arthur’s doorstep, Arthur answered with a smile on his face that was evidently for someone else, to judge by the way his face fell when he opened the door to Eames. Eames played it off as one does, taking the invitation to enter without hesitation. 

“What brings you back to my shasty neighborhood?” Arthur asked, stepping into the kitchen to fiddle with something.

“Can’t a bloke drop in on a friend from time to time? I seem to recall your making several visits to my flat.” Eames hated how defensive he sounded. Time to change tack. 

“I hear this is a nice neighborhood for taking a stroll,” he called out to Arthur’s back. 

“Don’t you have work to do?” Arthur said, coming back out in the living area with a dishtowel in his hands, flour on his face. 

“Ah, we’ve wrapped up all the recon, and I can only practice the forge so many times before I go barmy. Just waiting for the call now. What’s that on your face?” He reached over to brush off the streak of white on Arthur’s cheekbone and their eyes met as his hand made contact. Eames’ body flooded with heat- mother of god, how he wanted him. He withdrew his hand and brushed it off on his jacket, causing Arthur to wince. 

“Are you baking?” Eames asked lightly. He didn’t really want to tease Arthur about his strangely domestic hobby; he actually found it quite charming.

Arthur looked away and nodded, frowning. “Well, if you can call it that. I had to use the microwave since the oven’s element is busted. I think they’re pretty terrible actually.”

“With a sales pitch like that, how can I resist sampling them?” Eames said as he poked his head in the tiny galley kitchen. On the narrow wooden counter there rested a square platter of squashed-looking biscuits, pallid and slightly spongy in appearance. They smelled odd, but one never knew. Could be a taste sensation. He popped one in his mouth, over Arthur’s objections. Perhaps Arthur had revolutionized microwave cookery. 

Perhaps not. 

He pasted a radiant smile on his face as he swallowed. “Fascinating texture, darling. I think you’re really onto something here.”

“Cut the crap, Eames,” Arthur said, laughing and snatching the platter away and dumping the biscuits in the bin. “I know they’re shitty. I just miss baking.”

“You could have come over to mine,” Eames pointed out, wondering why Arthur hadn’t been by. Not in weeks, actually. Not since before he’d gone to Oslo. 

“Yeah, well. It was raining.” Arthur walked past him back into the small living area, arranging himself in the wicker chair. Eames spared a moment to be thankful that he didn’t have to sit in it; he remembered too well the ominous creak it had given out the last time he’d been here. He sat on the sofa and looked out the window.

“Ah, but it’s not any more, is it? Fancy an outing? Get your mind off your failed experiment? We could have a walk, have a drink.” Arthur looked like he needed a good time, and Eames was a master supplier of good times, for the willing. 

Arthur got up and walked to the window, as if to verify whether Eames was telling the truth about the rain. After what looked like an internal struggle, he turned around and said “All right.” 

They piled out the door, down the corridor and out in the street, the same awkward silence between them as had reigned the last time. Eames fervently hoped that something was going horribly wrong with Arthur’s job, because he didn’t like the possibility that their nascent friendship was going flat already. 

Everything had seemed to be going so well, those times that Arthur had dropped by. Maybe it was- oh for fucks’ sake. Of course. Arthur was a bloody control freak and had literally no problem with double standards. It was _fine_ for him to surprise Eames, but the other way around was an issue. He felt ambushed.

Well, at least Eames had sussed the problem. 

“Sorry to barge in on you again, mate,” he said as they rounded the corner to the main street of the district. “I should have rung you first.”

Arthur shrugged. “It was fine. I wasn’t doing much anyway.” His tone was dismissive but he seemed a touch more relaxed.

Eames smiled and looked around brightly. “Now what is there to do on a Friday night in Vuosaari? Let’s have a look around.”

They walked on a few blocks, exchanging trivia about their explorations of the city. Eames made Arthur laugh with his impression of an American tourist and Arthur made Eames laugh merely by being his familiar irascible self. They passed a number of cafes and restaurants but no drinking establishments. Eames was starting to get restless.

At last, a likely-looking bar advertising itself as The Hangout loomed ahead and Eames pulled Arthur in. The place was loud, warm, colorfully lit and covered in cheap chrome. It was karaoke night, clearly, and the crowd was mostly older people, with a few tarted-up millenials hovering by the loos. Eames pushed Arthur into a chair, ignoring his expression of disdain, and went to the bar. He retrieved some shots and some beers, setting them in front of Arthur, who stared at them.

“Bottoms up,” Eames said and winked. Arthur had lifted his shot to sniff suspiciously at it, then downed it and the one next to it as well. “Good man!” Eames clapped him on the back and grinned. “Have a lager!” He held it out to Arthur, who gratefully accepted it and swigged about half the bottle in one go. 

“What _was_ that?” 

“Tervasnapsi. It’s made from pine tar,” Eames said, shying away from Arthur’s inevitable abreaction. 

However, Arthur merely swilled the rest of the lager and slammed the bottle on the table. “More.” 

Eames’ eyebrows slid to his hairline, but he tipped back his second shot and went to the bar for additional lashings of pine tar liquor. 

When he returned, he saw that Arthur had one of the huge, beaten, old binders in front of him, listing the songs on offer. 

“Why Arthur dear, are you harboring a secret passion for song? I never knew I could get so lucky,” he said into Arthur’s ear as he sat down. Arthur rubbed at his ear and picked up the shot, drinking it with a pleased-looking grimace. 

“I actually like this,” he said. “Fuck, it’s strong.” He grabbed at the new bottle of lager and slugged some back, and Eames couldn’t help watching his neck as he swallowed. 

“Are you going to put in a song?”

“I will if you will,” Arthur said, a mocking look in his eyes. Oh well, in that case. It was game on.

“I most certainly will,” Eames rejoined, feeling warm all over. “Avec plaisir, mon petit chou.” 

“French won’t help you here,” Arthur smirked. He shoved the book over to Eames. “I’m not putting it in until you do.”

“Oh, I’ll put it in,” Eames murmured, looking at the book. He found what he was looking for immediately. Arthur didn’t need to know that he had more than a passing grasp of Suomi. He scribbled on his slip, making the selection look haphazard and random, and thrust it into Arthur’s outstretched hand. Arthur already had his slip ready to go, and he marched up to the KJ’s booth, slapping them down with a couple Euros as a tip.

Arthur’s obsession with couture was dangerous for the peace of mind of any red-blooded queer men in the vicinity. The trousers alone caused Eames’ blood pressure to rise. But it was his stance, the way his hip was cocked to the side, tightening the fabric across his arse - it was indecent. Eames couldn’t bear it.

“I’m actually pretty good at this, you know,” Arthur said mildly as they contemplated an elderly woman belting out a Finnish ballad from the 70’s. “I don’t want to show you up, but you’d better prepare yourself to feel outclassed.”

Eames smirked, tilting his head to the side. “Really. We’ll have to see about that, darling.” He loved how that word always, but always, made Arthur twitch. He wondered if he would ever have occasion to let him know that he meant it with a certain amount of sincerity. 

They sipped their beers and watched several more singers cross the stage to strut their stuff, with varying degrees of success. Then Eames’ name was called and he leapt out his seat, heartbeat kicking up a notch.

He took the microphone from the KJ and turned to scan the crowd. Most people were looking through the thick binders, oblivious to his presence, but when the KJ announced his song, heads swiveled and he heard cheers and groans. 

“Now we have Eames singing Would You Cry For Joy by Leevi and the Leavings,” the glittery, bespectacled KJ bellowed in Suomi. Eames glanced over at the screen and composed his face, then searched out Arthur and held his gaze. 

“Itkisitkö onnesta, jos panisin sua kunnolla,*” Eames crooned, staring Arthur down and reveling in the fact that he couldn’t know what the lyrics said. Arthur’s eyes widened, likely taken aback by the quality of Eames’ singing voice, which was smooth, deep and more competent than Arthur would have expected. 

He smiled seductively and went on to make love to the rest of the audience, taking the cheers and applause in stride. When the song was done, he bowed and returned to his seat, enduring hoots and cat calls.

Arthur gave him a stiff smile and said, “Well done. Didn’t know you knew the language that well.” 

Eames tipped an imaginary hat and leaned back in his seat, confidence personified. Truthfully, he was bit disappointed by Arthur’s lack of response. Not surprised exactly, but definitely feeling deflated. 

Arthur’s name was called next and he walked up to the mic stand, the textbook definition of poise. When he took the microphone in hand, Eames had a premonition that he might be in trouble. His posture melted into an eloquent come-on as soon as his hand curled around the shaft of the mic, and he brought it to his mouth like he was about to fellate it.

The music started, the lyrics came up on the screen and they weren’t in English. Arthur opened his mouth and sang, “Pimenee valkeat maat, laulupuut vaikenevat.” A cascade of sparks sizzled along his nerves as he registered that Arthur had definitely understood the lyrics Eames had sung to him moments prior. A little flame of humiliation glowed in the pit of his stomach, but he fixed his eyes on Arthur in spite of it. 

Arthur was owning this song. Arthur had _stage presence_ \- with his customary sang froid and savoir faire it should come as no surprise, but somehow was as shocking as if he’d gotten his kit off in public. 

“Minä turvaan vien tämän rakkauden, ja me löydämme uuden maan.” Eames felt like they were already in a new land, uncharted territory, straight off the fucking map into the dragon’s maw. Arthur’s body thrummed with repressed energy - he was owning this and he wasn’t even putting his whole self into it. He stalked around the tiny stage like he was channeling Bowie, it was frankly magnificent.  


“Sata salamaa! Sata salamaa!*” Arthur was selling the chorus, but still somehow half-arsedly, as though he couldn’t be bothered to care that he was killing it. A hundred, hundred lightnings passed through Eames and he bit his lip to keep himself from grinning when Arthur’s eyes finally lit on him. At long last, the song ended and Arthur descended the stage to wild applause, much louder than had greeted Eames. Eames couldn’t blame them.

He stood and bowed to Arthur as he reclaimed his seat, swigging back the remains of his beer, then grabbing Eames’ bottle and finishing that, too. He leaned back in his chair and gave Eames an assessing look. “You fold?” he asked coolly.

“So, fluency in Suomi is another of your little secrets, hm?” Eames said, nudging Arthur with his foot under the table. Arthur smirked at him. 

“Not fluent. Conversant. Enough to know you offered to ‘fuck me good.’”

“Ah, yes. Funny song, that.” Eames shifted in his chair. “It’s a Finnish classic.”

Arthur smiled and looked over to the bar, then rubbed his face. “I think I might be done. Too much too fast.”

Eames nodded. He was feeling a bit done in himself. They got up and walked back to Arthur’s apartment building, mostly silent except for a few comments about the singers they’d seen. Eames saw him off at the exterior door with a brush of his hand against the sleeve of Arthur’s light jacket. Arthur did a double-take at the contact, their eyes meeting for a hot moment. If Eames didn’t know better, he would have said there had been a flash of fear in Arthur’s eyes. 

 

The next time Eames showed up at Arthur’s door, he texted first. ‘8pm yr place, walk to new bar?’ Arthur had tersely replied “y”. Perhaps recklessly, Eames took that as an affirmative rather than an interrogatory. He arrived at Arthur’s place at 8pm on the dot, after having paced his own flat for an hour prior, checking his appearance and - not fretting but perhaps- mulling. Pondering.

Arthur answered the door with a smile that was evidently for him, which was gratifying. Eames congratulated himself on his perspicacity and the dividends in which it was paying off. Arthur was pleased to see him. It was a step up from most of their Eames-initiated interactions. 

He was dressed in his typical fashion, which was to say to the nines. He held the door for Eames, who entered and noticed a faintly vile smell in the air. 

“Darling, have you been experimenting again?” he asked, putting his hand on the small of Arthur’s back as he leaned around him to peer into the galley kitchen. Arthur shied away into the kitchen, pulling a silicone muffin pan out of the microwave. 

“Unfortunately, yes. I think it’s another fail.” He sniffed the muffins and made a face, then deployed a dimple as he offered the pan to Eames. “I’m going to need an objective opinion.”

Eames ducked - they smelled truly awful. Normally he was game for just about anything but these muffins were a no-go.

“Come on, Eames! Where's your sense of adventure?” Arthur took one out of the pan and held it up to Eames mouth, looking at him with- bloody hell, were those puppy dog eyes? Eames felt his resolve slip. Then he caught sight of the muffin up close.

“You know I’m a gastronome, love, but I really must abstain. Watching my figure, you know.” He took Arthur’s wrist and lowered it, hoping he wasn’t making a huge mistake by turning down the muffin. 

“Your figure is fine,” Arthur grumbled. “You’re just a coward, is all.” He chucked the muffins in the bin and turned around. “So. Where to?” 

“I was thinking we’d play it by ear,” Eames replied, gesturing Arthur towards the door and following him. 

“Naturally,” Arthur said, but Eames could tell he was smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eames sings: 
> 
> http://lyricstranslate.com/en/itkisitkoe-onnesta-would-you-cry-joy.html
> 
> Would you cry for joy  
> if I fucked you good  
> when you claim that I don't dare  
> to drive with eyes closed anymore
> 
> Arthur sings:  
> http://lyricstranslate.com/en/sata-salamaa-hundred-lightnings.html
> 
> Pimenee valkeat maat, laulupuut vaikenevat =  
> White grounds darken  
> song trees fall silent
> 
> Minä turvaan vien tämän rakkauden, ja me löydämme uuden maan =  
> I'll take this love to a safe place  
> and we'll find a new land
> 
> Sata salamaa! Sata salamaa=  
> A hundred lightnings!  
> A hundred lightnings!


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur could feel Eames behind him as he walked out the door, a hand hovering at the small of his back without touching. His senses were all on high alert, as though there were a predator afoot. 

They walked down to street level and kept walking. Walking next to Eames was second nature; god knew they’d explored enough dream mazes together, striding side by side, watching each other’s backs. This was very different, which was not to say there was no threat. Arthur was very aware of the threat. The way that at any moment this might turn on them. He tried to push down the wary attack dogs of his self-protective measures. They hadn’t gotten him laid lately. Or ever.

“So, where are we heading?” 

“Arthur, are you telling me that you’ll defer to my judgement?” Eames raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to bristle. 

“I did let you push me into the karaoke bar,” he said, raising an eyebrow right back. 

“And I let you push me into doing a song.”

“Quite a song you chose,” Arthur said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Did you really not know I spoke Suomi?” 

Eames looked put out. “I’m not the researcher in this party, Arthur. In my defense, I’ve hardly been out in public with you here. You stopped by my flat a few times but there was no occasion to hear-”

“Relax, you’re not on trial,” Arthur said as he elbowed him. “And I’m a very stealthy person, you shouldn’t feel bad that I got one over on you.” 

Eames snorted, then coughed to cover it. 

By this point they’d walked nearly to the metro stop and hadn’t run into any decent-looking watering holes, so by mutual and silent agreement they boarded the next train and rode it into the heart of the city. During the ride, Arthur surreptitiously studied Eames in the mirrored reflection of the train’s windows. 

When had this feeling turned from idle appreciation to the budding desire that pressed on him at all hours of the day? What was he supposed to do with the fact that Eames was merely whiling away his free time, maybe looking to get his rocks off in a drama-free way? Arthur was closed off in some ways but he wasn’t deaf, dumb and blind. He knew Eames was feeling his way into Arthur’s pants in slow increments. He just wasn’t sure what he was going to do about it. 

They got off at Kamppi and Eames asked around for good bar. The unanimous opinion of the three Finns so consulted was that they had to go the Torni, a rooftop bar on top of a hotel with an amazing view of the city. 

Once ensconced at the bar, bizarre Finnish takes on classic cocktails in their hands, Arthur felt a lot too much like he was on a date. A somewhat accidental date, but a date nonetheless. It turned him awkward, tongue-tied. He fidgeted, leaned down to rub the site of the wound that had blasted through his calf muscle a year and a half ago, which still ached at unpredictable times. 

“It still hurts you?” Eames said, once Arthur had straightened and leaned his elbow against the bar. Arthur nodded and took a sip of his drink.

“I was worried about you.” Eames just dropped it there, like the phrase made any sense. Arthur turned his head to look at him, skin burnished gold in the dim warm light.

“Not when it happened, of course, there was no time. But afterwards.” Eames was looking slightly to the left of Arthur, as if there was something infinitely fascinating in the far left corner of the room. He rubbed his jaw, a certain tell he was uncomfortable.

“Afterwards? When I was fine, you were worried about me?” Arthur smirked slightly, wanting to make light of this strange turn.

“I- worried is the wrong word.” Eames looked down, away. He seemed tense, lost. Arthur’s heart thudded. Eames didn’t worry about anyone, for any reason. Eames was notoriously self-centered. A con man. This didn’t feel like a con.

But then, a good con never did. 

Arthur shook himself. “You don’t need to worry about me,” he said, forcing a smile. He sipped his cocktail and cast about for another topic of conversation, something to keep his mind off of how criminally good-looking the planes of Eames’ face were in the low light of the bar. 

Eventually, as they had a number of times now, they hit their stride, this time discovering that they shared the same unpopular opinion of the most recent Bond film. This led to other avenues of conversation, safer avenues that didn’t broach their shared history of depending on each other for their lives. 

Instead of taking the metro back to Arthur’s apartment, Eames decided to walk back to his place as it was only half a mile away. As they stepped apart to go their separate ways, Arthur half-turned back around to find that Eames had done the same. They both laughed, hesitated. Arthur’s eyes fixed on Eames’ mouth, relaxed in a half smile that highlighted the lushness of his lips. It would feel so good to close the distance, to brush his own mouth against that fullness. 

Arthur blinked and said, “Good night, Eames.” 

“Good night, Arthur,” Eames said, low and soft.

He was not expecting to get another invitation so soon, but three days later he was looking at a text from Eames, asking if he’d like to come over and try out the kitchen. 

Would he ever.

He brought ingredients to make a number of different things; including two types of salt, three kinds of flour and four varieties of sugar. He knocked at Eames’ door, the duffle bag over his shoulder rucking up the fitted cardigan he wore over a casual button-down and crisp jeans. So far he had not found any way to prevent the rucking up, though he dreamed of an elegant solution that would sell like hotcakes on SkyMall.

Eames’ eyebrows went up when he opened the door to see the huge bag. “Darling, you’re more than welcome to kip here, but-”

“Cool it, it’s just baking supplies,” Arthur said, shouldering past him and resolutely ignoring how Eames’ own shoulders looked in his cream-colored henley. 

“Ah. Well, as you can see…” Eames gestured to the array of items on the kitchen island. “I prepared.” 

Arthur’s jaw dropped. He picked it up before Eames could notice but nevertheless. A wild thrill ran through him, which was ridiculous, because how hard could it have been to collect these items from the shop. There was a grocers’ two doors down. He felt churlish trying to play this off as if it was nothing, but the alternative was -

“Did I leave anything out? Well, if I did, you’re sure to have brought it,” Eames said wryly.

“How did you even know what to get?” Arthur said as he sorted through the bags and packages. 

“Your confidence in me is touching, love. I do have access to the internet, hm?” Eames leaned against the counter next to Arthur, wafting his particular scent at him seemingly on purpose. It addled Arthur’s senses. Time to get this place full of the smell of baked goods.

Arthur did ascertain that there was no demerara sugar and the vanilla provided was of substandard quality, but those were the only omissions. He smiled, as he had brought those very things. Rummaging in his bag for them, he heard Eames hum and cough. “Problem?” Arthur asked, straightening.

“Not at all. Just, those jeans. Er. I’ve never seen you in anything like them.” 

“Well, baking. It’s not like I would wear a suit.”

“I had rather thought you might. Could have made a pretty picture.” Eames’ half-smile could have launched five hundred ships. 

“So, what am I making? You’re going to have to eat it, so.” Arthur made an expressive gesture.

“I suppose a pie might be beneath your skills…” he trailed off doubtfully. 

“I never claimed to have skills. What kind of pie? I didn’t bring any fresh fruit but I could make a custard.”

Eames produced a bag of Winesap apples out of nowhere. The hopeful, boyish look on his face was priceless. “My gran used to make apple pie and it was always my favorite. Would you…?”

“Sure. No pressure or anything.” Arthur smirked but he was secretly pleased that Eames trusted him to attempt a recreation of a treasured childhood memory, especially considering the quality of Arthur’s offerings he’d tried so far.

“If it’s terrible, I took the liberty of procuring a ringer.” Eames pointed to a store-bought pie in a transparent clamshell on the far counter near the fridge.

“Your confidence in me is touching.” Arthur sighed. “Prepared for everything - are you sure you weren’t a boy scout?”

“I haven’t the faintest what that even means,” Eames lied. 

Arthur ignored him and got to work, cutting the butter in the flour, adding the vinegar and ice water, kneading and patting. He set Eames on to peeling and slicing, but took over the slicing when it became clear that Eames didn’t know what he was doing. He added cinnamon, sugar, flour and a touch of cardamom and cloves to the apple mixture and stirred it with a wooden spoon that Eames placed considerately in front of him the moment he needed it. 

“You’re not using a recipe,” Eames noted. 

“I was a chemistry major in college,” Arthur replied. “Well, double-major, with library science. I use a combination of science and intuition.”

Eames peered at him from across the countertop. “Library science would suggest you know the value of a book. Like a cookbook, for instance.” 

“It’s nice to take a break from doing things by the book,” Arthur said, hearing how the words sounded as they left his mouth: portentious and laden with double-meaning. Eames was looking at Arthur as if seeing him for the first time. It was seriously disconcerting.

So he turned his attention to rolling out the dough that was just about done resting. He scattered some flour across the counter, placing the dough in the center and patting it down. Looking around for the rolling pin, he was surprised when it appeared over his shoulder. Eames was pressed lightly up against his back, holding it out to him with his arm nearly resting in the crook of Arthur’s neck. He breathed deeply and took the pin from him without looking around. Eames’ hand came down the rest on the counter beside him.

“Thank you,” he murmured, rolling half the dough into a circle. Eames hadn’t moved from behind him. Arthur’s body gently rocked back and forth as he made sure the dough spread in all directions, perfectly round. He could feel the heat of Eames all along his backside - he had a sudden flash of himself spread out in place of the dough, Eames buried deep inside him, holding him down and rocking him against the counter. It was so vivid he had difficulty stopping himself from rubbing up against the erection he was _sure_ he would find if he just tilted his hips and thrust his ass out a fraction. His face flamed; his bones melted; he felt like he was drowning in fire. 

Luckily, at that moment Eames stepped away and excused himself to the loo. Arthur could barely contemplate the likelihood that Eames had gone to beat off - but surely he hadn’t imagined the suffocating atmosphere of _potential_ that had just surrounded them. He focused all his attention on the lattice work that he had to construct over the top of the pie. It ended up little haphazard and cock-eyed, but he was only human for christ’s sake.

The pie was already in the oven by the time Eames returned, and Arthur had set a timer on his cellphone and was sitting on the sofa, looking out the window and pretending that everything was totally, completely, perfectly normal. He was terrified that Eames would not join in on the pretense, and somehow at the same time hoping he’d puncture Arthur’s cowardice and get right to the point. 

The point. Which was that they were dying to fuck each other. 

Arthur felt like he might actually die if they didn’t fuck soon. He had no idea how he was going to wait an hour until the pie was done- he couldn’t gracefully flee before they’d eaten some, but - maybe he could fake a migraine. There had to be something.

Before he could make up his mind, Eames was in the kitchen tidying up. Arthur abruptly felt like an asshole for failing to do so, and had to fight his impulse to get up and join him. 

“So, about an hour, you reckon?” Eames asked, voice suspiciously bland.

“52 minutes, 37 seconds. To be precise,” Arthur said. 

“Thank you for your specificity,” Eames said, smiling a private smile.

Arthur shook his head to clear it. He probably had imagined that moment, actually. Everything was fine. He didn’t have to fuck Eames. Eames had probably gotten laid the night before. Eames didn’t need him.

“Mind if I turn on the tv?” he said, at a total loss for conversation.

“Sure, but you’ll have to figure out how it works, I haven’t turned it on yet.” Eames had his sleeves rolled up and was in the midst of washing up. He looked appealing on levels that Arthur did not want to investigate. 

Arthur spent the next twenty minutes maximizing the efficacy of the surround sound and determining whether there was anything worth watching. There wasn’t, so he put on a dumb HGTV show about people who couldn’t decide whether they wanted to sell their home or buy a new one. Arthur grimaced at the flat midwestern tones of the husband as he half-heartedly tried to defend his position that they needed a “man cave.” Being American was so embarrassing sometimes.

Eames finished the dishes and came to sit on the other end of the sofa, body language broadcasting that he was merely sharing a room with a casual friend, which was good because that was exactly what was happening. He reached over and grabbed the remote from Arthur without asking, and within thirty seconds they were watching the last third of Die Hard. 

Ten minutes into the climax of John McClane and Hans Gruber’s love story, the tension in the air had dissipated substantially, enough for Arthur to stop feeling like he needed to invent an excuse to leave. The timer went off as the credits rolled and he leapt up to check on the pie - he always set the timer early but there was always the chance that the oven ran hot.

Through the oven window he could see that the filling had bubbled over and ruined the lattice. It looked awful, unattractively caramelized, parts of the crust burnt. Arthur felt a lump form in his throat, which was simply unendurable. It wasn’t so much that he’d wanted to prove his skills to Eames after the failures of his microwave baking experiments - those had been for himself, there’d been no expectation of success and Eames had just happened in on them. Not to say that he hadn’t felt a certain amount of shame, but it hadn’t felt as momentous as this. He’d been invited here to bake, Eames had gone to some amount of effort to procure ingredients, had asked Arthur to make something that clearly had emotional resonance for him. 

He’d fucked it up. And now he was apparently going to cry about it. 

As he was taking it out of the oven, he fumbled it and the pie pan ended up on the floor. Arthur made a strangled noise of fury, while at the same grateful for the anger since it served to mask his other emotions. “FUCK!” he shouted, glad to have an excuse to let off some of the tension that had been relentlessly building since he’d nearly drooled at the sight of Eames’ arms and shoulders in soft, clinging cotton on the way in.

Eames came in looking worried, which Arthur didn’t even have the ability to think about at the moment. But when he saw the pie on the floor, he let out a bark of laughter. Then he looked at Arthur and the smile slid right off his face. “It’s not ruined, Arthur. It’s not. It looks fantastic.” 

Arthur laughed, a thin brittle sound. He wished with all his heart that he could actually find this funny, be the kind of person who just had fun for fucking once and didn’t take everything so fucking seriously. But he wasn’t. He was who he was, and Eames- long-con Eames, pickpocket Eames, untrustworthy Eames - was a goddamned prince.

He watched, paralyzed, as Eames retrieved a fork from a drawer and lowered himself to where the pie lay, broken and spilling out its glistening apple viscera on the pine floor. He unceremoniously began to eat it - and with the first bite let out a sound so orgasmic that it nearly caused Arthur to crack a smile. Because, really. Who _did_ that? Who _sounded_ like that? Who enjoyed mere _pie_ like that? 

Eames looked over at him and said, “This is tickety-boo, Arthur.” Then he licked his lips and winked.

And at that, Arthur burst out laughing. 

Eames smirked triumphantly around his enormous bite of pie and patted the floor next to him.

“There’s plenty to go around, forks are over there,” he said, gesturing to the drawer. “Or we can share.” He forked up another bite and held it out to Arthur, who felt his resistance just evaporate. He knelt in front of Eames and opened his mouth, holding his gaze as Eames brought the fork to his lips and slid it in. It _was_ tickety boo. It was delightful. It wasn’t perfect, but who needed perfection when one had a gorgeous man feeding you totally adequate pie that you didn’t in fact ruin after all and in fact kind of did a great job on, all things considered. Without a recipe, even. 

He only realized his eyes were closed when Eames whispered, “Arthur?”

He opened his eyes to see a look on Eames’ face that, had he been any other stunningly handsome man on earth, would have caused Arthur to fall directly into his arms. As it was, this was Eames and it was professional suicide. He backed away and stood up to get his own fork, then sat down again at a greater distance, heart racing. He got a forkful of pastry and apple and shoveled it in, grateful for the distraction. They ate in silence for a moment, between them demolishing more than half of the pre-demolished pie.

“It really is, Arthur. It’s better than my gran’s,” Eames said with conviction as he leaned against the oven, setting his fork down. “It’s too bad about the presentation, but we can’t have everything, can we?”

“No,” Arthur replied. “We can’t. I’d - I’d better get going, actually.” 

He levered himself up from the floor, not looking at Eames. 

“I’ve got some more work to do tonight, there’s a chance we might move up the timeline on this job. Thanks for the - the kitchen and - thanks.” He plucked his sugar and vanilla from the counter, lobbed them in the duffle bag and finally managed to look over at Eames where he still sat on the floor. He looked blank.

“Sure. I understand. It was no problem, darling, I hope you enjoyed it.”

“Yeah. Um. See you later, I guess.”

 

‘See you later, I guess?’ What the fuck had that been? 

Arthur lay on his ludicrous twin bed and seethed at himself. His body was thrumming with unfulfilled desire. He hadn’t known it was possible to want someone this much. 

But this - this thing was - the thing was - he struggled to remember what it was. What it was, was - it was this. Arthur had a certain style. A professional image. He was sleek, he was slick. He was untouchable and cool and he always knew what the fuck he was doing. 

He was usually quite proud of his veneer. It was lacquered to a high polish, it was convincing. It got him work and respect. At the moment, though, it was starting to feel like a prison. 

Because underneath it, Arthur was just a guy. A guy who liked guys, who liked politics and sci-fi and even played video games, although not the new ones. He liked adaptations of Shakespeare. Truth be told, Arthur was a nerd, and he was a little goofy. He liked to sing. 

And he couldn’t let Eames get too close, get his finger under the mask. Eames would never be satisfied with a glimpse, Eames would inevitably go for the whole hog. And they’d never be the same, work would never be the same. Arthur would never be the same. Why had he thought befriending him was a good idea? 

He slipped his hand down his pants, nerves on a hair trigger.


	5. Chapter 5

Eames picked up the half-empty pie pan and placed it on the countertop, brow furrowed. Grabbing a storage container from a high shelf, he carefully spooned the remainder of the apple pie into it and shoved it in the back of the fridge. He couldn’t bear to throw it away but he doubted he’d eat it. 

Well, maybe. It _had_ been truly delicious. No need to let unprecedented levels of sexual frustration get in the way of a good bit of pastry.

He left the kitchen and went to living room to flop down on the couch, rolling his eyes when he realized that he’d semi-consciously occupied the seat where Arthur had sat. Fucking hell, what was Arthur’s problem? One minute he was deigning to indulge Eames’ homesick request for apple pie, the next he was acting like they barely knew each other. One minute he was opening his mouth in rapture, closing his eyes in bliss, then looking at Eames like he wanted to eat him alive - the next he was backing away, acting like the whole thing was Eames’ terrible idea. And what “whole thing,” anyway? 

The whole thing where Eames had stood too close behind him, wrestling with himself whether he would press his sudden erection against Arthur’s unparalleled arse - wanting him so badly he could taste it, getting so aroused he’d had to flee the scene to wank like a 15 year old boy in the loo. The whole thing where Eames had nearly kissed him on the kitchen floor over a puddle of decimated pie. 

Eames had read this whole thing wrong from the get go. On some level he’d thought that Arthur’s voluntary, non-work-related visits to his apartment meant that he had finally broken down, had come sniffing around for the sound rogering Eames had been subliminally promising him since the day they’d met. But what if that wasn’t the case? 

He lay on the sofa and lowered his eyes to half mast, thumbing the remote on to some rubbish tv show and half-listening, half allowing his mind to wander where it would. His brain worked best when left unattended. 

After about half an hour of this, he bolted upright off the sofa and said, “Got it.” 

Eames was a patient man when he needed to be. Once he had a plan, he could contentedly wait at considerable length for the right time to put it into action. This was not one of those times. It was pure torture to wait the two days he’d decided was the minimum necessary to ensure that Arthur had gotten some distance and perspective from their last encounter. In the intervening time, Eames did a little research and found an ideal place to take Arthur, should he accept the invitation. 

The thing was, he knew Arthur wanted him. There was no way on earth he was misreading _that_. But the other thing was, clearly dear Arthur still didn’t trust Eames enough to let him in. Eames cultivated an air of laddishness but it was mostly for show. Not to say he didn’t have his fair share of conquests, but he didn’t sleep with co-workers lightly. Or ever, actually. Perhaps Arthur needed to be clued in.

Exactly forty-eight hours after Arthur walked out of Eames’ apartment, Eames picked up his cell and pressed the telephone icon. 

He was expecting Arthur to answer - he always did when it was a voice call - but he still felt his heart lurch when Arthur picked up and said, “Eames?” He sounded knackered and tense, and Eames wanted to give him a back massage and a shot of pine tar liquor. 

“Arthur,” he said, trying to sound sincere but not businesslike. “I was wondering if I might have the pleasure of your company this Saturday night.”

There was a brief, breathless silence and then, “What did you have in mind?”

Eames felt a smile spread helplessly over his face and replied, “There’s a place called Olo that I’d like to take you to. I think you might like it.”

“That- that place has three Michelin stars.” Arthur sounded gobsmacked. 

“It’s not like I can’t afford it.” Eames hoped his smirk made it across the cell phone transmission waves. “They have an 18 course dinner called the Journey. I thought we might give it a whirl.” 

Arthur was silent for a moment, then huffed out a breath of laughter. “Sure. Yes. I’d - like that.” 

“Very well, it’s a date,” Eames said, feeling very much like he might float up into the air. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“I’ll try not to eat between now and then,” Arthur said, the faintest smile in his voice, and hung up.

Eames spent the next four days in a mental fog. His job didn’t have enough to keep him occupied - their timeline kept telescoping and he’d done as much prep as he realistically could. He wished he enjoyed reading more. Since he didn’t, he filled his time with going to the small gym in his building, watching the news, surfing the internet, keeping abreast of developments and drama in the dreamshare community, and wanking. Heavy on the wanking. 

On Saturday, he woke up feeling like a kid on Christmas morning. Today was the day. He didn’t want to envision his hopes too clearly in case they be dashed but certain images kept playing in his head. He had a dozen guesses as to what Arthur might be like in bed and they were each more entertaining than the last, but it was what he might be like afterwards that had him all worked up. It tied his stomach in the most pleasurable knots, contemplating Arthur as tactile and affectionate, or chatty and transparent, or maybe just finally, for once, totally relaxed; languid and sated and content with life. 

He would love to see any of that. 

Something about the very sound of the text alert that arrived around 10am made his stomach plummet. He checked his phone and read ‘So sorry. Job got moved up. Can’t make dinner tonight. More soon.’ 

Eames was not prone to displays of negative emotion. He prided himself on his equanimity, actually. So it came as a surprise to him when he dashed the phone to the floor. He grimaced as he bent over to pick it up. It had sustained a small fracture, nothing major. He texted back ‘No worries, we’ll catch up when you’re done.’

What he wanted to text was ‘quit the fucking job and come to me now.’ But he didn’t. It took a shocking amount of restraint.

His phone alerted him again at 3 in the morning. ‘Job finished, went smoothly. This phone will be destroyed soon. Come to work party tomorrow 9pm? Linnanherrankuja 5, 00950’

Eames’ heart skipped a beat - he hadn’t expected Arthur to get back to him for a week at the inside, much less fewer than 24 hours later. He did a mental double-take at the invitation. He didn’t think he’d ever heard of a dreamshare team having an end-of-job party; what manner of madness was this? 

Well, Arthur invited him and Arthur would get him.

He texted back ‘see you then darling.’

 

 

Eames stood at the door of a place the internet had informed him was SaunaSessio, a rental for entertaining groups of people, replete with sauna, hot tub, dining and living areas, and karaoke. 

He knocked, not quite knowing what to expect. A young woman answered the door, blonde and lovely and rather tipsy. She asked him in Finnish if he was the caterer and he replied in Finnish, no, he was a friend of Arthur’s. Her face lit up in a radiant smile and she ushered him inside, introducing herself as Greta and showing him to the living area where groups of stylish people stood around, drinks in hand. Arthur was not in evidence. 

“So, you are Arthur’s friend?” Greta asked, hand on his upper arm. She looked too young to be in such a dangerous profession, Eames though, and then chided himself for being so retrograde. “We love Arthur, he is so detail-oriented and efficient! Not to mention fashionable - ah, there he is!” 

Eames turned to see Arthur walking towards them, dressed in a entirely-too-well-fitted grey lightweight suit, narrow lapels and narrower pants. Eames prayed he would keep the jacket on to obscure that phenomenal arse - he didn’t make a habit of springing boners in the midst of new professional colleagues.

“Eames, you made it,” Arthur said with an extremely mild slur. Which meant that he was honest-to-god bladdered. Eames had only seen it once before, and it had been a true experience. He felt a sense of let down - there were far more people at this party than he’d thought there would be, for one thing, and for another he’d thought they’d been leading up to something momentous, something Arthur wouldn’t want to be drunk for. Arthur put his hand on Eames’ shoulder in an approximation of a matey slap, and it was all wrong. This was wrong. Not the way it was supposed to go. 

“Let me introduce you to everyone - you’ve met Greta, she’s our forge.” He stage-whispered the last part, looking around the room with comically large eyes. Oh fuck, he was incredibly drunk. Eames wanted to whisk him out of here and sober him up, but he’d just arrived and it would look strange. Nursemaidish. He couldn’t humiliate either of them like that. Greta just laughed musically and sipped her drink.

“Over there is her brother, Albert - he’s the architect, an evil genius - and where’s Devorah?” Arthur tilted slightly into Eames as he looked around. 

“Arthur,” Eames began in a low voice, raising it when it didn’t appear that Arthur was listening. “Arthur, would you like to step out on the balcony?” 

“Yeah, that’d be good. I could use the air,” he said, his skin looking suddenly pale. “You can meet everyone later.”

Eames nodded at Greta and ushered Arthur out the glass doors to the balcony. “Are you okay?” he asked, one hand on Arthur’s forearm. Arthur’s eyes were glassy. 

“I- not really. We started drinking too early and the caterers haven’t- haven’t come yet.”

“Take some deep breaths. Did you eat _anything_ today?”

“Mmnot sure.” Arthur broke away from him and leaned on the balustrade. “I don’t feel great. S’just possible I drank too much.”

Eames felt a stab of tenderness and wrestled it under control. “Let’s find you a place to lie down. And some water.” 

They went back inside and Eames took them down a likely-looking hallway. Sure enough, there were several bedrooms to choose from. He chose the largest with the en suite, just in case. He got Arthur’s jacket off (goddamit) and laid him on top of the bed, a glass of water on the table beside him. His eyes were already closing.

“I’ll just lay here a minute. I’ll be fine,” he murmured as his eyes closed all the way, lashes casting long shadows on his cheeks in the dim light of the sconce. Eames took a lingering look at him, elegance and exhaustion written on every line of his body. He was stunning, even passed out on a random bed. 

“Leave. I’ll be fine,” Arthur repeated, slurring the words so that they could hardly be understood. Eames smiled doubtfully and returned to the party.

It was a good thing he was a people person. He would have to navigate this all on his lonesome; Arthur had barely talked about the people he was working with. He wondered if any of them had been told about him. 

The lights had been dimmed and the groupings had shifted by the time he got back to the main action. He found Greta, who was wrapped only in a towel now, and made his way towards her. She was truly fetching and if he hadn’t had his hopes set elsewhere, it was entirely likely he would have set his sights on her. 

“Eames! Where did you disappear off to? Where’s Arthur?” 

“Oh, he’s having a quick kip in the back. He’ll be up and about in no time. I’m Eames,” he said to the handsome man who’d come up to them, dressed almost as well as Arthur. 

“Hello, it’s a pleasure. I’m Albert. I’ve heard all about you, of course.” Eames felt a warm glow at this, in spite of his attempts not to.

“You’re the architect? How did you get into the business? You seem quite young. Both of you, actually.” 

“We’re new to the game, but not to the strategies. My sister here has a dual graduate degree in psychology and oneirology. I’m ex-military, was roped in by Devorah over there, our chemist. She’s the real mastermind behind this team.” He gestured to another rather young woman by the drinks table, large dark eyes and classically Mediterranean features under a cascade of floridly curling hair. 

“I’ll admit I’ve never been to an end-of-job party,” Eames said, not bothering to keep the doubt out of his voice. It seemed like a terrible security risk, but he assumed if Arthur had signed off on it, it was on the up-and-up. Somehow. The skepticism remained painted all over his face.

“These are all old friends of ours, they don’t know what we’re up to,” explained Albert coolly. “We all knew each other prior to getting into this business. No one has reason to be suspicious. It’s quite a libertine crowd; if you loosen up you might have fun.” The ‘grandpa’ was tactfully omitted but heavily implied.

“We’re heading back to the sauna if you’d like to join us,” Albert continued, giving Eames a slow once-over. He was blond, lanky, smooth and truthfully just Eames’ type. It was an odd thing to experience an attraction that felt so hollow. Normally he’d be making plans to get this guy off in the hot tub with no one the wiser. He would even have gotten his sister in on the action; that kind of indiscriminate sleaziness was his standard modus operandi not even a year ago.

“Sure, I’ll come along. Which way?” 

Greta led the way, hips swaying under her scant towel. She showed him the shower and changing room, where he got his kit off and wrapped a towel around his waist. When he entered the sauna, a surprisingly large room, Greta and Albert had distributed themselves on the benches on either side of the door. Eames settled well away from Albert’s rangy form, on the end. Devorah came in and sat between Eames and Greta, giving both of them sultry looks. Greta sidled closer to Devorah, then laid down, head near the other woman’s lap. Albert gave Eames a look that promised just about anything he could think of, as he stretched his legs out in front of him and rested his hand near his crotch.

Eames had always known that his opportunity for a real, bona fide, spontaneous orgy would come along one day. He cursed his luck that it had happened just as this thing with Arthur was coming to fruition at fucking last. Sure, he’d had threesomes- who hadn’t? And he’d been invited to orgies, again - who hadn’t. He was a grown-up and very much into grown-up pursuits. But this, here - fuck, they were all so sexy and he didn’t think he’d be able to get his dick hard if he tried. All he could think of was Arthur, passed out on that bed, and how very much differently he’d hoped the night would go. 

Ah well, best to enjoy the moment. The night was still young, maybe Arthur would feel better in an hour or so. Nothing to do but wait it out. He leaned back and tried to relax.

“So, you’re a forge too?” Greta asked.

“Arthur told you?”

“No,” she smiled, “You just did.”

“Nice. Well done. Yes, I’m a forge.”

“How long?” 

“That’s a rather personal question,” Eames said with a smirk. Fuck. Flirting was second nature to him, he’d need to keep a tighter rein on himself.

“I mean, when did you get into dreamshare?” Greta flicked her eyes over him, but it seemed like a reflex, not genuine interest.

“Since before you were in nappies, love,” he said. Then he thought better of being so flip with Arthur’s new friends. “I got in on the ground floor, through the military. Long time ago.”

Greta’s eyes widened, and Albert’s narrowed. “That is a long time. I bet you have so many stories.”

“Don’t pester the man, Gret. This is a party, let’s talk about something other than work. Eames, do you and Arthur see each other outside of work?” Albert’s inquisitive look bordered on the predatory. Eames felt a trickle of unease. “Because we could hardly get him out for a pint.” 

“Arthur’s a very private individual, Albert. I wouldn’t take it personally.” 

“Oh no, we love Arthur- dear, buttoned up Arthur.” Eames didn’t like his condescending tone one bit. “We just wondered if perhaps he had other - commitments.” 

Eames swallowed. He had no idea how to answer that innuendo without potentially putting a foot wrong with Arthur. “Arthur’s commitments are his own. Excuse me.” He got up and went to the shower, rinsing off then putting his clothes on again. He went in search of a drink and a smoke, had some inconsequential interactions with various partygoers, then settled in to watch a few brave souls start up the karaoke machine. He soon tired of that and went to check on Arthur. He wondered if the wisest thing to do wouldn’t be to get a cab and take Arthur back to his apartment. Or to Eames’. 

No. That was a terrible idea. 

He slowly turned the handle and cracked the door. Arthur was in a different position and the water on the nightstand was gone. That was a good sign - it meant he wasn’t passed out cold and his body had the necessary tools to start the sobering process. He resisted the urge to go over and smooth his hair, touch his skin. 

Back at the party, Eames accepted an improvised cocktail from a person of indeterminate age and gender who appeared to be tripping, then wandered out to the balcony where he found Devorah. 

“Don’t be offended by Albert,” she said by way of introduction, holding up her cigarette to him for a light, which he provided. 

“You’re the chemist.”

“Yes, and I know Albert very well. His bark is worse than his bite. He’s just touchy because Arthur turned down his advances. And now we know why,” she said, looking him up and down. 

“Ah, well. Nothing to report there, I’m afraid. We’re just friends.” The falsity of the words as they passed his lips made him almost sick. They had gone from being barely friends to potentially being something quite a lot more than friends and he couldn’t say exactly when it had happened. He suddenly felt quite disoriented. 

“Come with me, I have some hash that will set you to rights.”

He allowed Devorah to steer him to a smaller den where people were indulging in various vices. It was exactly his scene and decidedly not Arthur’s, at least not that he’d ever been aware. He was offered coke, valium, various hallucinogens, and a hookah in turn. He declined them all, taking just a courtesy toke of the hashish Devorah provided. 

Soon Eames found himself naked in a hot tub with Devorah, Greta and a few of their mutual friends, who all seemed to be nebulously engaged in either art or fashion. Probably trust funders. He got the impression that neither Devorah nor Greta were really from that world and that they were taking their opportunities where they could find them, ie: amongst the rentier class. Eames approved heartily.

Thanks to the hash, he was now feeling expansive and gregarious. These young nippers still needed their measure taken, but he presumed Arthur had started files on all of them already. He exchanged amusing personal anecdotes and harmless sexual innuendo with them for a while until he tired of talking. One by one they took their turns in the cool tub then back to the hot, affording Eames the idle pleasure of studying their forms. Devorah and Greta had begun making out and it was a lovely sight. 

All at once he’d had his fill of it, of all of it. He wanted to find Arthur and get them both out of there immediately. He levered himself out of the tub, grabbed his towel and made his way back inside where the karaoke party had gotten into full swing. He heard the strains of a song that had been inescapable about ten years ago, one he’d done his fair share of dancing and fucking to. A crowd of cheering people obscured the performer, so he sidled over to peer through the bodies. If a Finn was about to attempt this song, he wanted to witness that.

It was Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Olo doesn’t in fact have 3 Michelin stars, it only has one- but I couldn’t resist the name, which apparently means “feelings” in Finnish. 
> 
> Many thanks again to Dandalf_the_disco without whom this story would not exist in its current form! Cheers!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the main karaoke chapter - if you want to listen to the songs, there are links in the end notes!

There had never been much chance that the job would go south - it was a low-stakes, junior league extraction for a client who had no connections to the underworld. The mark was not militarized and the information to be gathered was unclassified. His main goal in joining the team was to get a fix on the methods and motives of the people involved. While they were mostly quite young, with the exception of Noam the extractor and his wife Vilna, he’d finally determined that they had their heads on straight. He ended the job confident that they would make useful additions to the world of dreamshare. 

Arthur had felt an odd sense of guilty relief about cancelling on Eames. The intervening days of waiting had taken a toll on him, body and spirit. As it turned out, he hadn’t entirely lied about not eating between Eames’ call and the dinner. His nerves had made food consumption nearly impossible. It was like waiting to take an exam you couldn’t prepare for, one which would determine the course of the rest of your life. Arthur excelled at taking tests, but they tended to wreck him first.

He consoled himself that it had been unavoidable. The mark had made spur of the moment plans to go to Ibiza for an indefinite stay, so they’d had to bump up the schedule and it had conflicted directly with dinner. The job had actually taken only a few hours, no clean-up to speak of. As soon as it was finished, a sense of grief washed over him. What if he’d missed his only chance? The thought made him sick.

Even so, he had wrestled for hours with the wisdom of sending Eames the invite to the party. 

A number of factors were in play. One: Eames should meet these people. It was simple professional courtesy to arrange an introduction to the new kids on the block. Two: Arthur was tired of bottling everything up all the time. He was going to have an inoperable ulcer by the time he was thirty-five. Three: Arthur wanted to make it up to Eames for missing their dinner. Their _date_ , he amended in his mind. Their _first date_. Four: Arthur had another job lined up and was going to be leaving in a few days. He wasn’t sure when he’d see Eames again. Five: He liked these new people, he felt relaxed around them. He was the older, more experienced person amongst them and it was refreshing to feel like he had nothing to prove. He’d felt the veneer crack around them, and he’d liked it. Six: It was time to let Eames in. But he needed to start slow, and have plausible deniability. Seven: A party like this was the perfect excuse to let the mask slip - if it went badly, he could always blame the booze.

As he considered his mental list, it forcibly struck Arthur that every last factor pointed towards inviting him. 

He texted Eames at three in the morning, feeling proud of himself. The return text made him press the phone to his mouth. A fact which he would deny under most forms of torture.

The next morning he felt an enormous sense of impending dread. 

All day he tried to eat, but nothing appealed. Even dry toast seemed too rich. He drank quantities of coffee instead, which in retrospect had been a huge mistake as it had led to a caffeine overdose, which led to day-drinking, which led to early overconsumption, which led to - 

Oh fuck. 

Arthur came to on an unfamiliar bed, head aching, with the dim memory of Eames urging him to lie down. His heart turned over in his chest. Gingerly he sat up, assessing his physical condition. Still a bit woozy but not too bad. He stood and went to the en suite, splashing some water on his face and neck, careful not to get his shirt wet. After sipping another glass of water and donning his jacket, he smoothed his hair in the mirror and took a deep breath. He wondered if Eames was even still here. He looked around for a clock- no one used them anymore, damn it, and his cell was at the bottom of the Gulf of Finland. 

The noises of a raucous party reached his ears. He opened the door and walked down a hallway he couldn’t really remember traversing the first time, and came out on the large combined living and dining area. The catering had finally arrived - some time ago, by the picked-over looks of it. The clock on the oven in the kitchen told him it was just past midnight. He would be surprised if Eames was still here. 

Most of the partygoers, including Noam and Vilna, were watching aspiring divas break their vocal chords over histrionic Finnish pop songs. Then one enterprising girl got up and began a rendition of Rihanna’s S.O.S. that had Arthur’s competitive spirit rising up within him. He idly dipped some bread into the still-warm fondue and ate it slowly, feeling it ground him a bit. After a few more bites, he felt less like an untethered kite. 

The girl sang well. _It’s not healthy for me to feel this way - Y.O.U. are making this hard- I keep tossing and turning, can’t sleep at night._ She was doing a great job, actually. It was just that Arthur could do it better. 

He poured the smallest amount of white wine into a cup, slugged it back, and wandered with false casualness to the group of singers and lookers-on surrounding the couch. Flipping through the book, he didn’t find anything that called out to him. The next singer did a Ludacris song and butchered it completely. Which put him in mind of - yes. That was it, that was the song. 

He found a slip, scribbled the song and artist down and handed it to the person manning the karaoke machine. Then he went the kitchen to get another drink of water and another thimble-full of white wine, just to keep his chords loose. 

Someone whose friend had put their name in without asking declined to sing, so soon enough it was Arthur’s turn. His nerves buzzed pleasantly as he took the mic. “Peace Up! A-town Down,” said Lil Jon, and the crowd cheered. “Yeah, yeah, yeah - yeah, yeah - Yeah,” Arthur started, letting himself sway with the echoing, lilting affirmatives. He loved how this song felt in his body, pushing and pulling him back and forth with the backgrounded and foregrounded effects. 

“ _Up in the club with my homies, tryin’ to get a little VI - keep it down on the low key, cuz you know how it is,_ ” he sang, hearing how mellow and smooth his voice sounded, how relaxed and confident his delivery. It helped that he’d sung this song a million times in front of his mirror in its heyday - he knew exactly what moves to make and how he would look making them. 

“ _She was saying come get me_ ,” and he made a come-here motion with his hands and then ran them down his body and did a shimmy, causing several girls to squeal. He grinned at them. This was fucking fun. “ _So I got up and followed her to the floor, she said baby let’s go that’s when I told her, I said Yeah_ ,” he sauntered around in front of the crowd, singing the song with his entire body. 

“ _Next thing I knew she was all up on me screaming Yeah yeah yeah,_ ” and he undulated his hips, feeling sexy and invulnerable. “ _But I gotta keep it real now, cuz on a one to ten,_ ” he sang, and as the girl in front of him bent down to get her drink, he saw Eames standing by the door, a look of complete astonishment on his face. “ _She’s a certified twenty, and that just ain’t me, hey,”_ he continued as their eyes met. 

A surge of confidence and a sharp feeling of ‘fuck it’ swept through him. He held Eames’ gaze as he sang the next part, heart hammering out of his chest. “ _Cuz I don’t know if I take that chance, just where is it gonna lead,”_ he kept singing through the painfully apt lyric, watching the way Eames’ expression resolved into stunned comprehension. It was exhilarating and too intense; Arthur broke eye contact and kept performing, playing to the crowd even more, heightened by the feeling that he had every last scintilla of Eames’ attention. The mask was down and it felt fucking amazing.

And now it was time for Ludacris to get in on the action. “ _Watch out, my outfit’s ridiculous,_ ” he flicked his hands over his suit and winked, the crowd laughed. “ _In the club looking so conspicuous, and rowr, these women all on the prowl, if you hold the head steady I’mma milk the cow._ ” He met Eames’ eyes again and he was laughing, he was enjoying it, he liked Arthur this way. He liked it. Fuck that, he was _loving_ it. 

“ _Me and Usher once more and we leaves ‘em dead, we want a lady in street and a freak in the bed,_ ” he sung directly to Eames, whose eyes flickered with arousal. Arthur’s eyes skidded over the rest of Eames, almost losing the rhythm as he registered the state of undress he was in, his tattoos on full display, a scant towel slung around his hips. The song circled back around to the chorus and Arthur threw himself into it, euphoria flooding his veins. But as the song wound down, he found himself watching as Eames melted away from the crowd. 

He tried to control the wild stab of disappointment that speared him. He’d thought - he didn’t know what he thought, he had thought maybe the crowd would part and they would be magnetically pulled towards each other, locking lips for fucking finally. Or something dumb like that. But evidently Arthur had read the thing wrong again - Eames had been laughing at him, not with him.

Or maybe he’d just left to put some clothes on. 

Arthur pushed down his doubts; he had just had a fucking blast, he’d just sort of confessed feelings or _something_ to Eames, he needed to just keep going, keep the faith. Keep the mask off somehow. Instead of following Eames and trying to make some sort of weird scene, he sat down and flipped through the book, accepting the high fives and congratulations of the people around him. Turning to the back of the book, he saw the perfect song and scrawled it on a slip. He handed it off and went to the kitchen for one more tiny cup of wine, which turned into a fairly healthy serving when his hand slipped on the pour. He drank it anyway. 

The crowd was thinning and he found a place on the couch, feeling restless and agitated. 

That feeling only intensified when Eames appeared, walking over to the girl operating the karaoke machine and handing her what looked like a €50 bill while whispering something in her ear. “Hey, no fair,” someone said loudly, but Eames looked over and made a hush motion at them. He brought the mic to his gorgeous lips and Arthur’s mouth went dry. 

Eames looked down at his shoes as the music started, a gentle chiming sound and then the bouncing sound of an 80’s jangle-ballad. Then his head came up and his eyes fixed on Arthur’s, face solemn and sincere. _“I never wanted another,”_ he sang to Arthur, directly to Arthur. _“Come over to me and discover, I want to be near you and you need to be far away.”_ His eyes were closed, his face pained. His voice was the essence of tortured seduction. 

_“You always seem to make me feel at home,”_ Eames sang earnestly, searching Arthur’s face. Arthur’s face and body were numb; he was overloaded with emotion at this display. Distantly he realized that he ought to be feeling embarrassment or humiliation - this was far too private a moment to be sharing with other people. But he was drunk and exhausted and moreover, so fucking tired of holding this at bay. He didn’t give a damn about these other people; they could go fuck themselves. If they didn’t like it, they could leave. 

_“I look at all of the people, doing it over and over,”_ but Eames wasn’t looking at anyone other than Arthur. _“You never get any older,”_ delivered with a smirk at Arthur, who couldn’t believe that Eames would choose this of all times to make teasing reference to his cursed youthful appearance. _“I wish that you could be nearer. I look at you and I make the same mistakes,”_ Eames sang intently to him, and then he put the microphone down and strode over to kneel by Arthur’s feet.

Arthur was tempted to pull out his die, but he didn’t want to break the spell and frankly, he didn’t care if he was dreaming.

Eames planted a hand in the cushion next to Arthur’s thigh and with the other hand pulled Arthur down to whisper urgently in his ear, “You’ve been holding out on me, darling. If you’re afraid I’m not serious, I’m telling you now I’m deadly fucking serious. We’re going to do this thing and we’re going to do it right and we’re going to do it _now._ ” He moved his hand from the back of Arthur’s neck to his jaw, bringing his head in line for a kiss. 

“Arthur’s up! Next up Arthur singing Scissor Sisters,” called the girl at the karaoke machine. 

Arthur brushed his lips against Eames’, feeling wild and reckless and _unpredictable_. He whispered against his mouth, “Yes, to all of that. Just give me a minute.”

Eames uttered an unearthly groan and reached for Arthur with both hands, but Arthur was too quick for him. He leapt up and over to the mic, sweeping it into his hand as the lyrics appeared on the screen. 

“You’ve got to be joking,” Eames said, looking at him with his jaw dropped. “Arthur…” he growled, but a slow, disbelieving smile was spreading over his face. He leaned forward with his forearms on his knees, gaze trained inescapably on Arthur’s every move.

The music started, frantic and driving like Arthur’s heartbeat, slightly dreamy and sinister. _“My heart it dances, whenever I’m with you,”_ he sang, to Eames’ widening eyes. _“Don’t make advances, I’m scared of what you’ll do. We go out, have a laugh, have a good time, you and I,”_ he sang, swaying to the music and keeping his gaze trained relentlessly on Eames. _“And when the night is through it feels so right to kiss your lips, wish I could say to you that I’ve got so much, come and get it.”_

The chorus played on the stereo, repeating _Get it get it, hug it kiss it, love it love it._ Arthur didn’t sing along with it; in his peripheral vision he watched the few remaining people at the party get the hint and scatter from the tacky emotional display he and Eames were making. He thought he might hurry it along with his next move.

 _“And when the fun ends I look into your eyes and say,”_ and he straddled Eames’ lap, singing directly to his face. _“Oh what a lovely time, I think that this might be the day.”_ He dropped the mic, pulled Eames’ face to his with both hands and licked into his lush mouth, entirely uncaring of what anyone thought. He tasted like pot and alcohol, a little stale, but so human, soft and slick. Arthur probed those crooked teeth with his tongue as if to confirm that yes, this warm mouth under his belonged to none other than Eames.

Eames surged up against him, sliding his hands down to Arthur’s ass, groping with a palpable desperation. Arthur ground back into the touch, which resulted in their groins colliding forcefully. Eames was fully hard and so big Arthur nearly cried out with longing. How lucky could a man get, he wondered. Really fucking lucky, he answered himself as he bore down on the length of him and received the filthiest groan in reply. 

He pulled back to look into Eames’ eyes, and was astonished to see the complete unguarded quality of his face. Then his eyes went hooded and intent, and Eames claimed his mouth again, with a vengeance. Arthur heard someone calling his name and, without ending the kiss, he flicked his gaze over to see Greta looking sheepish.

“We’re leaving,” she whispered loudly. “The place is yours. Just lock up when you leave.” Then she blew them a kiss and swept out the door with Devorah’s arm around her waist. 

Arthur pulled away to call out his thanks, but Eames placed a hand firmly on his jaw and reeled him back in. He was all business now, there was no going back. They humped each other like teenagers for long moments, abandoned to sensation. Arthur’s chin was getting a rash from Eames’ stubble and he couldn’t wait to see it in the mirror tomorrow morning, like a brand on his face. ‘Eames was here.’

Eames adjusted underneath him as he got a strong hold on the backs of Arthur’s thighs. “Hang on, love,” he murmured in Arthur’s ear, and then with an almighty shove upwards, he lifted them both off the sofa with Arthur’s legs around his waist. He walked them thus, like an ineluctable god of conquest, to the hallway with the bedrooms. Arthur wrapped his legs tighter and his arms around Eames’ broad shoulders, a violent shiver of anticipation wracking him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is entirely owed to someone posting a video of JGL lip-synching 'Yeah.' I writhed in ecstasy while watching it and immediately realized I had to write Arthur singing it.
> 
> Usher - Yeah  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y2lylF5ogUQ
> 
> OMD - Forever Live and Die  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=moFiaQPCl04
> 
> Scissor Sisters - Get It Get It  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YPYKYBUn27s


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, the THRILLING CONCLUSION! (well, except for an epilogue which should be along shortly...)

Eames hefted Arthur in his arms and silently thanked whatever gods were listening that he’d spent so much time in the gym lately. Arthur felt natural and right in his arms and around his waist. He could barely wait to make it to a bedroom to see what he felt like around Eames’ cock. He had his face buried in Arthur’s neck, sucking marks on him, trusting his sixth and seventh senses to prevent him walking them both in a wall. 

As it was, he nearly broke Arthur’s spine trying to make it through the doorway, but at last a bed hove into view and he tossed Arthur onto it, and there they were. At last.

Arthur let out a soft “whuf” when he landed, and Eames saw the glare think about crossing his face, but it fled when confronted with the reality of their situation. Arthur’s face went soft and slack with desire as he looked Eames up and down, and Eames couldn’t believe he was here for this. But he was _here_ for this. Absently, Eames ran his hand over his erection where it was trapped in his trousers and Arthur followed the motion, licking his lips, gaze hooded.

“You gonna come over here or what?” Arthur said, propping himself up on his elbows. “I didn’t get the best look at that in the sauna, but from what I saw...” he trailed off as Eames started unbuckling his belt.

“Don’t worry, darling, it gets bigger,” he smirked, and dropped trou. He slid his briefs down swiftly and felt rather than saw his cock bounce. His whole attention was on Arthur, who had begun wriggling out of his clothes as soon as Eames’ briefs had cleared his hips. 

The way he undulated to get his pants off put Eames in mind of a hundred dirty things they could do. They could do them _now,_ his brain reminded him. They could do _anything._ The mind reeled at the possibilities.

He stripped his shirt off in one grand gesture and stalked to the bed where Arthur still had his trousers round his ankles. If Eames still needed convincing that Arthur wanted this as much as he did, he’d found it in the fact that Arthur didn’t even seem to notice the hard use to which he was putting his very nice suit - crumpling it and shoving it aside without a second thought. The whole thing just made Eames’ dick that much harder. 

The trousers were all tangled with Arthur’s shoes; Eames pulled the shoes off and swept the trousers away like so much discarded wrapping. Then he moved up on the bed, where Arthur was now naked from the waist down. He wanted to rid him of the jacket and shirt, he did, but oh he just couldn’t resist inspecting that gorgeous piece of equipment jutting up from Arthur’s crotch. 

He looked up to see Arthur watching him like a hawk. Eames met that gaze with a feral look and an unholy smirk and lowered himself on Arthur’s cock like he was worshipping at the shrine of Eros. 

Arthur’s hips bucked up as the head slid between Eames’ lips, causing Eames to slide back off and press down on his hipbones, tsking. “Now, now, dear Arthur, patience is a virtue.”   
He was already descending again when Arthur replied, “I’ve been too- ohhhhh fuck - too fucking - ah, fucking hell - patient. God, Eames.” 

His name, drawn out in a desperate plea for more, that was all Eames wanted, really. His own cock bobbed and dripped between his legs, but he didn’t care. 

He licked around the head and shaft of Arthur’s cock, tracing the frenulum and then allowing just the slightest graze of teeth against the rim of the crown. It drew a tortured gasp from him and that was enough information to go on. Arthur liked a little pain with his pleasure. Well, who couldn’t have guessed that? Eames dropped all the way down on the cock in his mouth til his lips grazed Arthur’s bollocks. 

He hollowed his cheeks on the slow slide back up, so Arthur could get the full effect of his cocksucking mouth. One didn’t just let an asset like that go unnoticed. Although, sad to say, Arthur’s eyes were closed in bliss so he missed the show. Oh well. Eames set up a nice rhythm that soon had Arthur panting deliciously and fighting Eames’ hold on his hips, trying to rear up for more friction, a faster pace, anything to get off. Eames, in return, slowed way the fuck down and relished the cry of frustration that followed. Then he pulled off entirely, backing away and wiping his mouth.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Arthur whined, head hitting the mattress in wrecked exasperation. 

“Up and over, there’s a love,” he muttered as he manhandled Arthur by the hips to get him to assume a more opportune position for what he had in mind. “Turnabout is fair play,” he added, and then, “pun intended.” Arthur reached back to slap at him for that, chuckling dazedly.

“I was enjoying that,” he complained as he raised up on his knees to shuck his jacket and shirt, then let himself be situated on his stomach, arse in the air. 

“I know you were, pet,” Eames said understandingly, “but I want you to come like this.”

He smacked one sweet, round arsecheek just to watch it shimmy. It looked so good he did it again. And again, the reaction was perfect; Arthur’s neck and cheeks going pink, hips thrusting him back into the slap. Oh fuck, Arthur was going to kill him with perfection. 

He stopped smacking the cheeks and started kneading instead, watching the way the firm flesh bunched and curved under his ravenous hands. The cheeks parted further with each grasp, revealing a tight little furl that Eames suddenly couldn’t wait to work his way into.

As he leaned in, Arthur writhed in protest. “No, Eames, ah God, fuck- no, I didn’t-”

“Shhh,” Eames said, “I love it. You’re going to taste superb.” Then he spread Arthur’s cheeks as wide as they would go and got a nice close look at his target. It was tiny, pert, surrounded by the softest fuzzy hair and he was going to _ruin_ it. With just the barest tip of his tongue he tickled the fuzz on the periphery and Arthur made a strangled giggle and tried to squirm away. Eames got a grasp around his waist to hold him in place and traced a light circle around it, then placed kisses all over the tender flesh on either side. 

Arthur was making almost subaural sounds of frustration, which fed Eames’ trickster soul but also helped him take pity on the poor man beneath him. He flicked his tongue over the tight hole until the sounds became highly audible, then he buried his face in that crevice and drove his tongue in like a heat-seeking missile. Arthur let out a shockingly animal sound and Eames did it again, wriggling his tongue like a fish, working him open quickly, relentlessly. 

He was getting a little bit loose now, so Eames leaned off the bed, over to where his trousers were piled on the floor and rummaged around in the pockets for a packet of lube. Arthur was right, he did like to be prepared. Preparation was something of a speciality of his. 

“Eames? Everything all right?” Arthur sounded relaxed and surprisingly not demanding or petulant. Eames could get used to this version of Arthur. If all it took was vigorous rimming, then Eames saw a future with his face up in Arthur’s arse and it was an utopian vision. 

His fingers slicked, he levered himself back up and repositioned Arthur, pressing kisses all over his cheeks and between his thighs. “Ever had internal massage, hm?” he asked as he teased the hole with his index finger. 

“Is that what you call this?” Arthur shifted beneath him, getting a hand on his own cock. Eames reached under and batted it away, giving Arthur’s erection a single long firm stroke. “That’s mine for the moment,” he reprimanded. 

Arthur let out a guttural sigh but kept his hand planted on the bed. 

“Good boy,” Eames murmured and slid two fingers in without warning, angling them to find the right spot. 

He brushed over a telltale bump deep inside and Arthur groaned and heaved backwards, chasing the sensation. Instead of attacking it head on, though, Eames slid his fingers around it, grazing it from the sides and tracing its periphery, never touching the same place twice in a row.   
Soon enough, Arthur was a writhing mess, rolling his hips frantically back onto Eames’ hand. Eames was sweating with effort and arousal, his own cock throbbing with desperate need but he had no time for it. It would have to make it through all on its own. 

He kept at it, Arthur incoherent beneath him, sweat puddling in the groove of his spine. He’d always known Arthur had this in him; to be so pliant and responsive, so unselfconsciously filthy. Suddenly Eames had to see him, had to know what his face looked like in the throes of this experience. He withdrew his fingers and Arthur mewled in protest, but Eames gentled him and got him turned over, long limbs yielding gracefully to his manipulation.

Poor Arthur, Eames thought fondly as his cock gave a violent twitch at the sight. He was _destroyed;_ his face blotchy-pink, a hectic flush all over his heaving chest and neck, hairline slick with sweat. But it was his eyes, hooded and dazed and glittering, that struck Eames in the solar plexus. His mouth was slack, his eyes roved to where Eames’ cock bobbed, eager and dusky. Eames was so, so tempted- but he wanted to do this for Arthur and he knew his fingers were better at it than his cock, as fantastic as it would feel to slide into that exquisite heat right now. 

He got his fingers up inside Arthur again and had the profound pleasure of watching his dark eyes flutter shut as they rolled back up into his head. His neck flexed involuntarily, head hitting the sheets and lolling with complete abandonment. Eames saw the orgasm ripple through all the muscles of his body when it began to hit; pulsing shudders that went on and on, wracking him from head to toe. His cock erupted come without Eames’ touch, and it was magnificent. Eames came to the sight, panting and calling out Arthur’s name in a long, drawn out rough moan. 

He collapsed on top of Arthur despite his intention not to, but met with no complaints. It appeared, after a long moment, that they had both passed out in the aftermath. Arthur was lightly snoring and Eames wished he wouldn’t. It was simply beyond the pale that Arthur was able to snore appealingly. He shifted position, curling around Arthur’s prone form, nose tucked into the crook of his neck where he smelled sleep-warm and wonderful. 

 

 

On waking some hours later, Eames kept his eyes shut and reveled in the fact that Arthur was still in his arms, and to judge by the feel of him, still asleep. He was no longer snoring; his breathing was long and even, his skin heated and silken. Eames ran his hand gently over the fine hairs on his upper arm, the smoothness of his chest, the tender softness of his belly. He left it there, feeling it rise and fall with his breath. 

After a while, there was a subtle change in the rhythm and Eames knew Arthur was about to wake. He hummed low and soft in his ear, letting him know he had company, and trailed his hand lower, lower and further back, til he was probing the still-slick, still-stretched rim of Arthur’s hole, just barely; hardly touching it at all. Arthur purred like a cat and pushed back into the touch, eyes closed and body still reading as asleep.

Eames was no saint. He was hard, painfully so, and while he would never presume that he was owed anything for giving pleasure, he really truly had exerted phenomenal restraint in not fucking Arthur with his cock hours ago. It wasn’t so much that it was his due as that his willpower had run out - this unbearably tender, erotic moment just had to culminate in their fucking, it just had to. If Arthur woke up like this, Eames would have to make it good enough that he wouldn’t be pissed off about it.

His fingers skated over the slick skin between Arthur’s legs and returned to the loose hole that beckoned him. Nuzzling behind Arthur’s ear, he inched the tips of his index and middle fingers into the opening, alert for changes in breath. Arthur remained quiescent, so he slid his fingers further in, scissoring them enough to note, with a frisson of excitement, that he didn’t really have to do much preparation at all. He could probably sink into Arthur with little resistance, just as he was.

Eames reached behind him with one hand, feeling around on the bedside table for the discarded packet of lube and just barely grasped it. He squeezed the last drops onto his straining dick, hissing at the coolness of it on his hot flesh. Working quickly, he got himself slicked up and guided it in by feel. 

He let himself groan low in his throat - he wanted Arthur to wake up to this, wake up to being filled and possessed by him. It struck him then that he wanted Arthur all to himself. If they were going to do this, it would be just the two of them. He pressed deeper in, closing his eyes at the grip of Arthur around him - heaven. No one else was going to have this. Eames’ hips thrust ever-so-gently, rocking his cock in and out and in, little breathless hints of what he really wanted to do. 

Arthur stirred and moaned then, neck craning around, pressing his ear against Eames’ nose. “What--” he began, and then sighed and bucked into the motion of Eames’ hips against him. “Mmmm,” he hummed, and smiled, his eyes just barely peeking open. 

Eames’ hand slid to his hip, grasping, not really anticipating that Arthur would pull away but still wanting to foreclose the possibility. 

“Eames,” Arthur said in an adorably sleepy voice, and Eames’ heart turned over at the sound of his own name in that voice. This was what he wanted; he wanted it every morning, every evening, everywhere and anywhere. His hips moved more forcefully, pushing Arthur further down into the bed. 

“Yes,” Arthur murmured, and Eames swallowed and took a deep breath, getting a leg over and rolling Arthur til he was on his stomach, Eames straddling him. He got his hands up under Arthur’s hips, pulling them up and Arthur managed to spread his legs wider to accommodate him. Arthur was making continuous noises of approval, rocking back onto Eames’ cock, fucking himself on it. 

“Darling, you’re going to make me come doing that,” Eames warned, and all of a sudden Arthur was scrambling up from underneath him. He turned and faced Eames on the bed where he was on his knees, reaching for him, pulling them together for a long, searching kiss. Eames groaned at the feeling of Arthur’s tongue devouring his mouth but wanted very much to get his dick into something again. He grabbed at his poor unsatisfied cock and Arthur batted his hand away, smirking into the kiss. 

“Turnabout is fair play, right? That’s what you said?” Arthur growled into his mouth. Then he pushed Eames down onto the bed by his shoulders. 

“These fucking shoulders, Eames. They should put you away for life, it’s so unfair what these shoulders do to me.” Arthur sat on top of him, looking down with a gorgeous look of filthy triumph on his face. Eames shrugged his shoulders and beamed up at him. 

“All is fair in love and war,” he said cheekily.

“Huh. How’s this for fair? You had your way with me last night, now I’m going to have my way with you. Get ready,” he warned as he rose up on his knees and shuffled forward, positioning himself to sink down on Eames’ cock. 

Arthur reached around and grabbed the length of him, giving the shaft a firm stroke that had Eames pushing into it mindlessly. Then he rubbed the head against his wet hole, letting it almost slip in a few times until Eames found himself begging Arthur to have mercy on him. Arthur grinned and slotted the glans fully in place, pressing down teasingly. 

“Like this?” 

Eames growled in response. 

“You want this?” 

Christ, Arthur was a fucking _tease_ when he wasn’t post-drunk and exhausted. Eames pasted on his most sultry look and purred, “I want you on me right the fuck now, darling, and if you don’t take my cock immediately, I’m going to paddle you.” Arthur’s eyelids fluttered and he sank down post haste, shuddering on the way down. 

Eames planted his feet on the sheets for leverage and Arthur leaned back against his thighs, bracing himself to begin a slow circling with his hips. He stretched up and ground down at the same time, putting on the kind of show that he’d promised with his masterful performances on the mic. Eames couldn’t honestly believe it was happening; this sensual display was such a far cry from daytime Arthur it made him want to reach for his chip. 

Arthur leaned over, planting his hands on Eames shoulders and coming in for a long dirty kiss as he bounced gently on his cock. He was making soft sounds into Eames’ mouth that had him clutching hard at Arthur’s hips, trying to restrain himself from fucking up into him. God in heaven, Arthur was owning him. He sat back up and _undulated_ , and Eames cried out, balls tightening.

“Oh fuck, oh love, I’m going to-” Eames began but Arthur stopped his words with another slow, deep kiss, during which Eames filled him with come, pulse after pulse shooting deep inside him. Eames’ vision whited out and then cleared to the sight of Arthur fisting his own cock, head thrown back, a creature of incarnate sensuality. Eames felt his world reorient itself around this new side of Arthur. He’d already been half in love and now he had this to contend with; a man so utterly captivating it made Eames want to cry. 

Arthur painted Eames’ chest with his come and collapsed on top of him, breathing hard. Eames’ arms went around him of their own volition, stroking the smooth skin slowly. Arthur sank into the touch and Eames knew it was finished. He was done, this was it. 

“So,” he said, his voice alarmingly husky. “You like Usher, hm?” It was the lamest of openers, but he couldn’t bring himself to say what was on his mind, which was somewhere between a marriage proposal and a threat to stalk him to the ends of the earth if he left. 

Arthur huffed a laugh against his chest. “Yeah,” he said. “Pun intended.”

 

Fin!

(epilogue to follow)


	8. Epilogue

Eames held the chair for Arthur and he struggled once again not to feel coddled by this behavior. There was a part of him that enjoyed the solicitousness and another part that bristled at it. He knew that Eames enjoyed watching these parts wrestle with each other, and that added a third dimension of irritation to the whole thing. He decided to just relax into it - experience had already shown that the best sex happened when he gave in to Eames’ desire to take care of him. 

Olo was every bit as refined as Arthur could have hoped, and Eames’ willingness to let Arthur dress him for the occasion had paid off in spades. He looked devastating - Arthur struggled to maintain equanimity in the face of the picture Eames’ presented in Givenchy. Their eyes met and it was at once grounding and stimulating; they’d been fucking for days now, but tonight was their first official date and they both felt the momentousness of it. Arthur had to leave the following morning and was full of dread and a certain kind of relief.

Fucking Eames was a disorienting experience - he hadn’t known how many fantasies he’d been harboring until Eames set out to fulfill them all, reading Arthur’s responses like Arthur had tattooed his desires on his own skin. His body was sated beyond belief, his heart straining to contain everything he didn’t even think he could feel about another person, much less someone like Eames. 

The server approached and Eames announced with relish that they’d be taking The Journey, handing the menus over with joyous smugness. Arthur remembered that phone conversation, only a week prior, and how he couldn’t have predicted any of the days following. He’d barely known how to hope for a mere fuck and here he was, falling in love.

It was love. He’d felt it before, and here it sat before him again. Under a different guise, true - so different, he had to keep reminding himself. These things went happily sometimes. They did. They did, he’d seen it. It just had never happened to him, is all. If he depersonalized it, he could see how stupid and self-defeating he was being, holding himself just that smidge apart, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

The eighteen course meal was wine paired, obviously, and the first one was just a hair too sweet but it complemented the course perfectly. Eames raised his eyebrows at Arthur, waiting for approval as if he himself had selected the wine and made the dish. “Yes, it’s very good, Mr. Eames,” he said, reverting to old ways.

“You seem tense. Everything alright?” Eames sounded casual, but the line between his brows told a different story. 

“I’m just. Look. I’m not - I don’t need. Never mind. This is really nice.” Arthur cut himself off before he could ruin their dinner. He wished he could relax but evidently that only happened around Eames when he had his cock up Arthur’s ass. 

“I’m not trying to woo you, Arthur,” Eames said, frowning. Arthur glanced up, stung. What the actual fuck.

“Then what is this?” he asked stiffly. 

“That is to say, I’ve been wooing you for weeks. You gave in. You’re mine. You may as well relax, there’s no more tests. Pencils down, we passed. There’s nothing left to do but enjoy it. Drink up,” Eames concluded, waving his glass in the air. 

All at once the tension fled Arthur, muscles he hadn’t know were locked released and he could breathe a bit easier. 

“So, we’re enjoying this, then,” Arthur stated. “What is this, exactly?”

Eames just blinked at him. 

“It’s not like we’ve ever talked about it. Don’t give me that look.”

“Darling, I thought it was obvious. When two men love each other very much, they sing meaningful pop songs to each other in public.”

Arthur smirked in spite of himself, in spite of his distaste for having such things spelled out so baldly. 

“So you love me.” He was blushing, he knew he was. He looked around to see whether anyone had heard. It didn’t appear so. He knew Eames was joking. He didn’t know why he had to press him.

Eames just smiled and winked. Arthur sighed. 

“I did say I never wanted another. You can infer a lot from that.” 

“Can I infer that we probably shouldn’t work the same jobs any more?” Arthur asked, still trying to find his footing, figure out where they stood. He just couldn’t shake the idea that this was going to ruin everything. 

Before Eames could answer, the second course arrived. It looked repulsive but smelled wonderful. Arthur poked at it. Eames swallowed it in two neat bites, then met Arthur’s gaze. 

“I want to work _more_ jobs with you, now that I know what a demon you are in the sack. Arthur, yes.”

“Yes what?” His heart raced. He still held Eames’ eyes.

“Yes, you know what. I would say it out loud but I’m afraid you’ll bolt.” Eames’ mouth was set in a wry quirk, but his eyes were sincere. 

“So we keep working together.”

Eames smiled; a soft, tender thing. “We keep working together. And everything else together.”

Arthur sat back, feeling like his insides were larger than his outsides and not knowing how to stop the gigantic grin from spreading all over his face. 

“Ah, the dimples,” Eames said, enormously, disgustingly pleased. 

 

 

THE END FOR REAL  
(not the end, the beginning….. Violins swell, etc)

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on [Tumblr](http://www.oceaxereturns.tumblr.com)!


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